


Iezevel

by Teawithmagician



Category: The Hunted (2003)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Feelings, Background Het, Disabled War Vet, Drama, Gen, Hard Healing, Healing, Het, Hidden Feelings, Knife Wounds, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Some Forms Of Abuse, Triggers, Unhealthy Atmosphere, Unhealthy Relationships, codependancy, tied-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why didn't you kill me?” Annie R. whispered when L.T. washed her with the wet rags he brought in tin washbowl, full of warm soapy water. “You never answered me. You already tried to sacrifice me, didn't you? Avraam and Isaac, excepting Issac was Izevel, the prophet's daughter, the she-lamb on the altar.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Iezevel

**Author's Note:**

> Your attention, please, Hallam is actually Female Hallam and Annie R. Hallam. I would gladly cast Michelle Rodriguez to this role. 
> 
> I'm not sure is Bonham abusive or not, so there are many warning tags.
> 
> This also may be OOC. Rly, I dunno.

Snow was falling, leaving frozen drifts that besieged the cottage. Annie R. Hallam didn't see the drifts from L.T.'s cottage window over the bed as she was lying in fever, too ill to move her head, too wounded to speak and too exhausted to show interest in weather. She only knew they were there just like she knew L.T. was there, and he tied her arms and legs to the bed.

Annie R. knew she was dying. She felt the life soaking out of her, being glad to know it: the ending of short but diversely painful life meant the ending of her martyrdom. The world seemed to be an inhospitable place to the little Annie. appeared a terrible place full of walking nightmares to Ann R. Hallam. Annie R. was glad to leave, but L.T. kept her body tied to the bed, and her soul — to his cottage.

“Why didn't you kill me?” Annie R. whispered when L.T. washed her with the wet rags he brought in tin washbowl, full of warm soapy water. “You never answered me. You already tried to sacrifice me, didn't you? Avraam and Isaac, excepting Issac was Iezevel, the prophet's daughter, the she-lamb on the altar.”

L.T. never answered, that was right, and never showed Annie R. the pain he felt though she stabbed him several times and tried to break his neck. L.T. she saw looked older, he looked uglier, his face wearer, his hands sometimes unsteady as though it was painful for him to move. This L.T. differed from the man Annie was used to know, he would pass for another man from another life if the light was set right. If the light was set right, Annie R. saw in L.T.'s face reflections of fire, skew like lacerations, cauterizing his cheeks. Watching this L.T. Annie R. could easily imagine him instead of those soldiers, stooping below the bodies, oinking like pigs. She could pretend they and L.T. were the same: hungry hogs.

It was a relief for Annie to humiliate L.T. in her mind, that meant she could hate him better, the only thing she never succeeded at. Annie clenched her fists, dreaming of a new encounter, but L.T. tied Annie's arms and legs to the bed thoroughly. He knew if Annie felt better she would sooner or later try to kill him again, so he took care of the... things. He prepared. The hogs didn't get prepared, they attacked, as attacking was the only thing they wanted. That meant that L.T. wasn't a hog and Annie couldn't hate him as a hog. When who was he?

Annie thought of how determined L.T. was when he decided for Annie that she would live the life of the unholy martyr instead of dying. The embodiment of the Law & Justice of the Old Testament, God the Father himself. L.T. was Avraam to Annie's Isaac, also being the God who commanded Avraam to sacrifice his only child just because his love was so tough he found no over way to convey it, as told by the Bible. In the end L.T., like every god (even the strictest one), got tricky on Annie, who was his Isaac, who, in his turn, was the she-lamb, Iezevel, who in the end tricked herself and appeared to be Lucifer the Fallen: the one who made the Maker regret and, consequently, regretted that.

“Do you ever regret?” asked Annie when L.T. fed her with thin clear soup of scrawny winter hare. Annie spat on the blanket, refusing to eat, but L.T. grabbed her throat and made her swallow like she was an ill animal rejecting the medicine. Always silent, always inexorable, L.T. never responded her and never tried to speak, making a few sounds himself. All that Annie heard was L.T's deep breath, and, sometimes, silence with which he suddenly woke up in the middle of a night like a ghoul in his grave. Was L.T. alive and real, or Annie finally died and got locked in Hell? But if she was in Hell, where were all those screams, and gunfire, and the smell of gore?...

Sometimes Annie smelled the blood, it was old and spoiled as though the smelling one was slowly rotting alive. It was when L.T. cleared Annie's wounds, deep and festering: Annie's body was fighting to the death to die. L.T. didn't use anesthetics, and where were no painkillers, as the healing was plain and tough, and very secret. Annie didn't know how L.T. hid her from his FBI friends, but if somebody was able to do it, to make FBI loose the track, it was L.T.

L.T. was the best, and Annie nearly killed him. She smiled when thinking of it, and when she smiled and looked at L.T. she believed he knew why was she smiling. Funny that a rebellious fallen angel nearly destroyed the Maker of Everything with bare hands and homemade knife (it sounded just like a homemade lemonade, Annie wouldn't refuse some — the best homemade lemonade was filling the rivers of Babylon). It was L.T. who made Annie, so he ought to die of her hand in the Battle of Apocalypse, and she was ought to die after killing him, there was no mistake.

In the night, when Annie was carefully loosening the nodes with which L.T. tied her to the bed, perfectly knowing he would check them in the morning, she dreamed of the time she was just a cadet, and God the Father was satisfied with her, distinguishing her from the other sheep as his favourite combat she-lamb. He even took her for that survival weekend in the mountains, where everything was the same: the cottage, the woods and the bed, except Annie wasn't tied to it. L.T. wasn't sleeping on the floor, and they could see the moon peering into the window. The moon was blue and Annie found it fantastic just like the sounds of Nature beneath.

That evening thousands of lives ago L.T. examined the bruises on Annie's body, looking contented. Annie passed the test and the Father God accepted her as his most perfect and deadliest creature, prepared to kill, kill, kill. When Anne had killings enough and rose against the violence and the pain she was forced to watch but never interverne, rose up for all the speechless and weak, frightened and desperate, mutilated and raped, he didn't join her. He joined the strong.

“I hate you,” said Annie R. Hallam, even stopped weakening the soft but gripping nods, fixing her wrists and angles but not interfering with the circulation of the blood. She knew that L.T. heard her, but also she knew that he wouldn't answer: why speaking to an apostate? When his husky voice raised, Annie thought she was hallucinating, but she wasn't: her hallucinations was never that poor.

“I don't hate you, Annie R.”

“When why are you torturing me?” hissed Annie.

“I am setting the things right.” The God of the Israelites might command the Pharaoh to let the people go through Moses' lips by killing the firstborns of Egypt in the same manner. Annie envied how he believed in the things she didn't even consider important. His feet on the ground, his head with the rest of his body, L.T. was never a cloud-walker. So materially-minded he could one day take roots in the forest to turn into the sacred oak, the shrine of all the murderers he taught.

“If you want to set the things right, kill me,” demanded Annie. She could bite off her tongue, but it wouldn't be a sacrifice if she did that by herself. L.T's God demanded sacrifice, so it was him who should take the knife, the one in the kitchen's drawer, with the spotted oak lever. They started it together, L.T. and Annie R., so they should end it together, too.

“No.”

“But why?” Annie R. asked persistently. God demanded sacrifice, didn't L.T know? L.T.'d better give God what he wanted, or God would take what he wanted by Annie R.'s hand, this time being L.T.'s head.

This time, L.T. didn't answer to Annie R. He didn't pretend to fall asleep, he knew Annie understood he was awake. They lied in silent grey twilight as the glowing silver of snowdrifts was their only light, Annie was dozing, swinging on the waves of whispering voices, but, this time, the loud one was L.T.'s voice. It was L.T. dizzy from blood loss, as he shouldered Annie R.'s unconscious body and dragged it away from the place FBI would find her, mumbling, “Because I taught you.”

***  
If you like this work, you may also like my original ones: http://archiveofourown.org/series/375284


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